Memories To Lose
by tulipsandlace
Summary: A series of Ianto-focused drabbles; his past, his relationships with others, his emotions and the man behind the facade. Inspired by 100 situations prompts. Involving copious amounts of angst, massive speculation, smut and, uhm, a little bit of crack..
1. 001 to 005

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, sadly.

A/N: Angst ahoy! It's Ianto! It's Season 2! It's slashy! And it's angsty! What can I say, I do like torturing pretty characters. Inspired by Livejournal's 100situations Table Prompts One, 5 prompts each chapter, 20 chapters, keeping it short and sweet.

_Warning:_ Spoilers for Season 2, I'm warning you now. ANGSTING, major angsting. And a little bit of crack in 005, I couldn't resist..

* * *

**001 Tired  
**Ianto is tired. No, not tired. Exhausted. The type of exhaustion which seeps through his skin, his mind, his bones, the type of exhaustion which renders him incapable of moving, incapable of speaking, incapable of doing anything but think, _Tosh, Owen, Tosh, Owen, Tosh, Owen, Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack._ And he curls up on top of the sheets of the single bed, wonders why he was left alive, to pick up the pieces, to wipe the dead from the records while Jack and Gwen grieved. And asks himself if it was worth it, if any of this was worth it.

* * *

**002 Back Alley**  
'Shh, Ianto, be quiet-' A hot whisper into Ianto's neck; and he cannot help but groan as his body is pressed between Jack's warmth and the grime of the bricks, rasping against his shoulderblades through an immaculate suit. Jack's tongue slides over his lips, calloused hands cupping the back of his head, entangling themselves in his hair; and Ianto feels his fingers clutch at Jack's back, the rough material clenched, desperately. And still Jack wedges him closer into the wall, and Ianto feels the heat from their bodies seep, and merge. And then, suddenly, Jack pulls away, leaving Ianto reeling, suddenly acutely aware of the chills rising up his spine, up his neck, in Jack's absence.

A smirk, barely visible in the inky darkness. 'Wouldn't want the Weevils to catch us, would we now?'

* * *

**003 Sunrise**  
The sunlight streams in through the windows, dappling in soft amber pools across Ianto's face. He shivers, lingering on the brink of consciousness, drifting between options, still not quite aware of why there is a sudden light flickering across the delicate skin of his eyelid. He stretches slightly, rolls over languidly, moving out an arm to check for a presence beside him.

His eyes shoot open, and then there is a dulling; a realisation. He bites his lip, steels himself, stands, collecting all emotions he may once have had. Reminding himself why he carries on, and the original reason he stifles the thing which could destroy him, which will destroy him, eventually. Ianto is not so naïve to think that they have forever.

And he is alone in the bedroom.

* * *

**004 Late  
**'You're a bit late, Jack.' Ianto shoots him a glare, and carries on filing away paperwork. 'You know, rounding up evil alien hordes hellbent on destroying the planet is a whole lot easier with the team leader actually being present.' He takes a sip of coffee, and raises an eyebrow ever so slightly. 'What's your excuse this time?'

'You're late, Jack…' Gwen hisses, pursing her lips. 'I mean, I know you've got stuff on your mind, but Tosh's funeral, for God's sake, what is wrong with you?' He notes the faint mascara stains, just below her eyes, as she moves off to comfort someone, anyone, holding together the fortress. And Ianto is beside him, suddenly, a gentle hand on his arm. 'What took you?'

'You're late, Jack.' And he is back in a graveyard, gazing down at cold grey stone and words which don't mean anything to him. And it's autumn, again, and the leaf piles are cracked and decaying. Jack feels an unfamiliar twisting sensation inside him, because he couldn't get back, couldn't get back to Torchwood and Cardiff and the man lying several feet under his feet, couldn't get back quickly enough. And then he is on his knees in the unforgiving earth, shuddering, because he knew it would end like this, knew right from the beginning.

* * *

**005 Son  
**Ianto had always wanted a son, had always wanted the football games and the rugby matches and the first day of school and the stable family in the Cardiff suburb. But it was almost laughable now, now that so much had changed, now that dreams of a Lloyd or a David or a William or a Lewis were gone, irretrievably. He had hoped, once, had planned with Lisa, once; before all of that had been made redundant by an immortal-military-coat-wearing-time-hedonist, of all people. So he exhales, and casts all ideas of fathering a child away. But-

'Jack?'

The figure next to him opens an eye groggily in the darkness, wraps his arms a little tighter around Ianto's body, bedsheets rumpled over them. 'What?'

'How do you feel about adoption?'


	2. 006 to 010

**Disclaimer: **I still don't own the copyright to Torchwood or the characters in these drabbles, I just like messing with their minds

_Warning:_ More angst, but I shouldn't have to be warning you at this point. There's also a lot of leaping around in the timeline in these drabbles, and events from Season 1, I hope it makes sense! And, err, swear words. And very _very_ tame smut.

* * *

**006 Hot  
**The heat-wave is inescapable, even in the cold, clinical exterior of the Hub. Gwen, absent-mindedly fanning herself with last month's Rift data sheets; Owen, grumbling at the lucid humming of the fans scattered around his desk, shifting stagnant air; Tosh, used to this by now, ploughing through databases and coding and numbers, always numbers, flushed. Jack, coat tossed to one side, top button undone, asking, planning, barking out orders every so often. And Ianto is lost, lost in a heady daze of confusion and repression and heat, because all he can think of is the twisting in his chest whenever he sees the man who destroyed the only person who ever fully loved him. And the conflicts in his head are nothing to the conflicts in his heart, not even worthy of a comparison; to betray a memory or to betray something entirely more real, entirely more tangible? And he takes in a sharp breath, wipes off a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead with the back of his hand. Turns back to the filing cabinet, bites down hard on his lip. And so it begins.

* * *

**007 Friend**  
In time, Owen and Ianto develop something resembling a friendship. They recognise each other in the dry humour, and the bitterness and the stifled anger that they share, and although the dead man and the lost man are opposite in nearly every sense of the word, they share this inextricable bond. They have lost, they have hurt, they have suffered, their pain mirrors each other's. A love, lost by Torchwood; a love, gained by Torchwood. Ianto notes this similarity as he presses the final Delete, a twinge as he realises that they were both far, far too late, and a regret for something that never even was. And a desperate, clutching plea to himself, to never make the same mistake again.

* * *

**008 Floor**  
Ianto's knees hit the cold floor of the basement, and then he is slumped over one body, another sprawled behind him. Only it's not really a body, is it, a little voice niggles in the back of his head. Not really a body, Ianto, not really Lisa, not really anything, not even a Cyberman, not really. And Ianto sobs, and although the blood is seeping through his clothes and mingling with his tears and sweat, he can only see Lisa, and her broken body amidst the steel and the unspeakable destruction and the faint murmurings of his colleagues in the background. A voice asking him to get up from the floor, another voice ordering him to move away, and then another trying to console him, all fogged and misted and distorted in his grief and pain and confusion, and oh god, is this everything he's ever worked for, everything he's ever loved, reduced to this? And he is flailing, flailing in whatever emotion is overpowering him, blinding him in its intensity, and not even he can analyse what that specific emotion is, not even he can pin it down or categorise it or file it away to somewhere safer and less vulnerable. Another sob, harsh, ringing through the loaded silence, and Ianto looks up, eyes wild and distant, head jerking backwards, tears streaming and mingling with what's left of the woman he loved.

* * *

**009 Cheat**  
'He cheats, he always cheats.' Said with a smirk, and Gwen smiles, because it's been a very long time since she's seen Ianto as happy as this, although he does an extremely efficient job of covering this up, fiddling with buttons and zips and feigning awkwardness very, very well. And he is happy, deliriously happy, content in the knowledge that Jack's always going to be there to shove him backwards against the artificially produced ferns and kiss him until his eyes roll back, and his lips are parted, and he hasn't even realised he's lacking a suit jacket and shirt until he feels Jack's breath skim over heated skin; deft fingers kneading and pulling and scratching with a desperation that Ianto's seen many times before, one that's never spoken of, one that's simply acknowledged. Acknowledged in the way that Jack bruises his lips with fierce intensity, acknowledged in the way that Jack rakes his fingers down Ianto's back, marking him, possessing him, acknowledged in the way that Jack clutches Ianto to him in the aftermath. And despite being a man who's cheated death more times than is worth counting, a man who has all of the time in the world – all of the time in the universe - Jack sure as hell knows how to live in the moment; a moment that both men know will eventually end, the ambiguity rendering their encounters just that little more frantic, just that little more reckless. And Gwen smiles, and blushes furiously, stifling a giggle in the back of her hand as she stumbles out of the heated room.

* * *

**010 Think**  
'Months, Jack, you left me for months. Just when I thought things between us… shit,' Ianto turned away from the mirror, picked up the glass of water, took a gulp, then spun back, locked eyes with himself in the mirror. 'I think - I thought – I was – I am – falling in love with you?... No, god, god, far too forward. Come _on_, Ianto, think.' Ianto muttered and paced away from the mirror, a quick circuit of an immaculate bedroom, then back. 'I think I'm feeling…' _Shit, what precisely am I feeling?_ 'I just wanted to say that I'm having deeper feelings for you than originally predicted… Oh, bloody hell, too formal, too bloody formal…' He gritted his teeth and downed the rest of the water. 'I'm going to need something stronger.'

But when the time came, Ianto was surprised to find that no amount of pre-planning could have prepared him; the sudden coil in his stomach, the immediate tightening in his throat and hands, seeing Jack at work again, with no threat of imminent danger to the Hub – at least, not yet. And it came naturally.

'It's nice to have you back, sir.'


	3. 011 to 015

**Disclaimer:** Come on now, is there actually any point to these things?

_Warning:_ If interrogation kink isn't your thing, I'd skip 014, if not, be my guest ;) Potential spoilers galore, language, uhm, adult situations, nothing too explicit though, mostly just implications. Also, 015 is Doctor Who based, from the Season 2 episode Turn Left. Sorry, but that prompt was so goddamn hard!

* * *

**011 Disgust**  
Ianto's disgusted by Jack's flippancy, disgusted at the way he swaggered back into Torchwood expecting open arms and everything to go back to being how it used to be. Disgusted by the doubts creeping into his mind about Jack and the Doctor, disgusted at their shared understanding of time, and eternity, and one another. Disgusted by the constant pain of the past few months, the constant worry and regret and desperation, disgusted by how he couldn't help but think of Jack even as the team sped down a B-road chasing after a man-sized blowfish, of all things. Disgusted by how the words came out of Gwen's mouth before he'd even got the chance to formulate them in his own mind. Disgusted by his own weakness, the inevitable stab of joy as Jack locks eyes with him and explains. 'I came back for you.'

* * *

**012 Shelter**  
The raindrops are heavy on the plastic bus shelter, like bullets. Ianto leans back, stretching, slinging his school bag onto the bench beside him, head tilted upwards. He can see the water make patterns on the transparency above him. His foot taps unconsciously, impatiently. He considers how long today's Physics homework is going to take him, thinks about that new girl in the year above him and how much of a chance he'll have with her at the next school disco. His mind drifts, and he wonders whether he'll be greeted by his Mam today as he comes through the door. Or whether she'll be slumped in the bathtub, naked and giggling, eyes glazed. He shrugs off this thought almost immediately, he's learnt not to dwell on it, and his fingers find their way across the opening of the satchel. He pulls out a textbook, flicking absentmindedly through the pages, immaculate notes in the margins.

The bus finally arrives, and Ianto stands, makes his way out of the bus shelter, gripping his bag close to his chest. He stops abruptly, short of the opening doors. Because he sees something through the mist and the barrage of rain, he sees a man in a long coat, arms folded, staring straight at him.

'Bloody loony,' he mutters, and steps onto the bus.

* * *

**013 Borrow**  
_'__something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue'_

'I thought you didn't like weddings,' Owen grins at Ianto, leaning back against the bar. Ianto takes another steady sip of the wine and bites back the urge to fire some witty retort back at him, remembering Katie, remembering the memories Owen's learnt to stifle. He purses his lips.

'Always thought them rather clichéd, myself,' Owen cocks his head to one side, eyes flicking with disdain over the dancefloor. 'All these people, turned up to watch two idiots confess their undying love for each other. Nauseating.'

'An alien lifeform temporarily borrowing Gwen's body to grow its offspring isn't exactly clichéd.'

'Can always count on you to bring a healthy dose of realism to the table, can't we?'

Ianto raises his eyebrows, fending off a smile. 'This coming from the man who as of yet hasn't watched an episode of House without scoffing?'

'Hey, everyone knows that medical dramas-'

'Yeah, I know. Vastly over-rated, dramatic license going overboard-'

'Hang on, you're one to talk, Mr Running Commentary-'

'Boys, what are you bickering about now?'

'Gwen!'

Ianto and Jack turn to face her, instantly plastering grins on their faces.

'You look beautiful, Gwen-'

'Absolutely beautiful.'

And she does, Ianto notes, she looks absolutely radiant, face glowing in joy, playing unconsciously with the newest ring on her finger, eyes shining. He wonders if Owen regrets anything, and suddenly feels slightly awkward, out of place in what should have been a very tense conversation.

'Thanks, got to admit I feel a bit better now I'm not pregnant!' Her eyes flit down to her stomach again, and she pats it. 'Well, yet, anyway.' A wink. 'And Ianto, nice stint as DJ earlier!' Gwens turns back, makes her way across the dance floor, towards her husband. And Owen turns sharply to Ianto, who is already bracing himself for the onslaught. He can almost hear the cogs of Owen's brain turning.

'Oh dear lord, Ianto, you DJ'd?!'

* * *

**014 Chair**  
_'Just us… in this room… for as long as it takes… Terrifying.'  
'Really.'  
'Absolutely. Shivers down my spine.'  
'You don't look scared.'  
'Well… it passed.'_

Ianto's beginning to wonder why he ever suggested this. He can see nothing. He can hear nothing. He can feel nothing, save the cool metal around his wrists, binding him to the interrogation chair. And the silk, skimming across delicate eyelids, rendering everything black. His eyes are shut anyway, and it feels like an eternity since Jack whispered a codeword into his ear, bit the lobe, so gently, fastening the blindfold around his head. Ianto had heard him stalk out of the room, shoes ringing out on the cold metal floor. He sighs. Ianto is a patient man. But this, this is agony.

And he's on the brink of standing up and finding Jack himself, handcuffs or no handcuffs, when he hears the door open, then slam with so much force that he inadvertently winces, body tensing in anticipation.

'Ianto Jones, Torchwood One, personnel number 176.' He feels Jack's presence behind him, and it's all he can do not to tilt his head back wantonly and-

'You have some information that Torchwood Three needs.'

Hot breath, unbearably hot, on the back of his neck, calloused fingers brushing against his lips, already open. And then Jack's voice, low, threatening, fucking terrifying. 'And I will stop at nothing to get that information.'

* * *

**015 Alter  
**Funny how one moment, one decision, can alter everything. Funny how the course of a life can be changed by a word, a phrase, a split-second.

Donna turns right. Ianto's body is sprawled on the floor; Gwen lies a few metres away. One final shot from an armoured Sontaran, and the ship's exterior flickers and fades from Ianto's sight. He has felt this before, what seems like an eternity ago, but that time he had been resurrected. He waits for the kiss of life, seconds pass, and the blackness dances around him. He hears a scream from beside him, hazily recognises it as Gwen's, but it could have been anyone's, it could have been Tosh's, it could have been Lisa's, it could have been his mother's. He waits, still, can almost taste Jack. A vague awareness of a stuttering heartbeat, a dull pain to the chest. He can see Jack, could swear he could see his face through the darkness. One last breath, and then the heart judders, and it ends.

Donna turns left. Ianto pulls a lever on the espresso machine, reaches for a clean mug, feels a presence behind him. One corner of his lip twitches slightly, and he resists the urge to turn around as Jack's arms encircle his waist, presses his body flush against Ianto's back. He concentrates on making his voice neutral, uninterested, pointedly ignoring the quickening of his heartbeat.

'What'll it be today, sir?'


End file.
